


Steady, Ready

by clexastories



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clexa, Established Relationship, F/F, Hospitals, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clexastories/pseuds/clexastories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is blood on Dr. Clarke Griffin’s hands, because a boy died tonight, and though Lexa is the last person she’d thought she’d want comforting her, somehow it ends up being exactly right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady, Ready

The hospital emergency room is all loud yells and crying patients, stretchers flying by and doctors whizzing past. Clarke is one of those doctors—well, an intern. So she should be busy sewing up a forehead or tamping down a bleed. There was a shooting, after all. She should make herself useful.

There is blood on her hands, though—her shaking, trembling hands. These hands that were so still last week as she held a retractor for four hours in surgery, these hands that have been so steady when putting in a central line yesterday morning. But there is blood on her hands, and so they shake.

The blood isn’t hers. She tries to wipe it off, pressing her sticky fingers against her stomach. Only after they make contact does she remember that she isn’t wearing scrubs, so she’s just ruined her favorite t-shirt. Tears well up at the thought—isn’t that ridiculous, that people in the same room as her have bullets in their bodies, and she is crying about a shirt?

Taking in a shaky breath, she spins slowly, vaguely familiar faces glancing at her with concern but too busy with the chaos around them to stop. She must look horrendous, all wide-eyed and frightened like she probably had on her first day at the hospital.  _What, the princess can’t hack it?_ , one of her fellow interns had teased nastily. Back then, before she learned the advantages of using her claws and teeth, she had thought keeping a low profile as an intern at her mother’s hospital would probably be the best course of action. Octavia Blake had other ideas, though, and yelled something crude back at their obnoxious co-worker, thus unwittingly cementing her place in Clarke’s life as a steadfast friend.

Right now she needs Octavia. Because there is blood on her hands, from the guy with the warm smile and floppy brown hair at the bar, whose genuine charm had made her actually enjoy her rare night off from the hospital and convinced her to forget all about green eyes and braids and arguments. The guy at the bar, who had pushed her out of the way when the biker started shooting. The guy at the bar, who had ended up with a bullet in his stomach. The guy at the bar, who had kept smiling even as she watched blood pour out of him.

The guy at the bar, who had died on the way to the hospital, right under her very hands.

So she needs Octavia, but Lexa is who she gets instead.

“Clarke,” she breathes in shock, her usual, infamous stoicism breaking as she takes in Clarke’s state.

 _About fucking time_  rattles around in Clarke’s head, but that bitter part of her disappears quickly. There isn’t time to be angry at—whatever they were. Or had been—maybe still were?

Now wasn’t the time for that. Not when people were dying. When people were dead.

“It’s not mine,” Clarke says absently, staring at Lexa but not really seeing. “It’s not mine, it’s—oh god, what was his name? I don’t even remember his name. That’s awful. He—he pushed me out of the way, saved my life, and I can’t—oh my god, I can’t—”

Quickening breaths replace her words, and suddenly Clarke can’t breathe. She feels a warm, tight pressure around her wrist, and somehow she is being moved away from the chaotic and bloody clamor of the emergency room. The sounds get fainter and fainter until everything goes vacuum-silent with the muted click of a door closing.

Except it isn’t silent, because she is sobbing, loudly, and heaving in breaths, and there is still blood on her hands. She reaches out to wipe them off, but only Lexa is in front of her, and her scrubs are clean. Clarke doesn’t want to get them dirty, too.

Spinning around, she rubs them against her own shirt again, determined to get all the blood off this time.

“Stop it,” Lexa commands, and Clarke tenses at the demanding tone.

“Stop it,” she repeats, softer this time, almost pleading. Coming from anyone else, Clarke would call it frightened.

As another sob racks through Clarke, she suddenly feels warmth at her back, and strong arms wrap around her chest from behind. The harder she cries, the harder Lexa clutches her, murmuring worried, soothing words into her tangled curls. Air doesn’t come easier until the soft press of a kiss against the nape of her neck causes her breath to catch. Another kiss comes—because somehow, despite their recent fighting, Lexa is still so attuned to her body—and slowly, kiss by kiss, Lexa brings her back to herself.

After several long minutes of cries turning into subdued hiccups, Clarke turns in her arms, but still keeps close. She needs,  _wants_  to keep close.

“He died. Because of me. For me,” she whispers, needing to say the words. “And I don’t even remember his name.”

“You will remember,” Lexa murmurs back, pressing a long, hard kiss to her forehead. “You’re a good person, Clarke. You will remember. And it’s not your fault.”

The tears start again, but they are calm, silent, mourning this time. Burying her face into Lexa’s shoulder, Clarke rides out this next wave of shock, her rational side slowly taking back over.

“I could’ve died,” she says, even knowing it is morbid and awful to think about, let alone say.

“But you didn’t,” Lexa insists.

“I could’ve.”

“You didn’t.” The words are so fierce, and the way her grip turns so ironclad brings more tears to Clarke’s eyes.

Words seemed impossible again, so she just presses her lips against Lexa’s shoulder. Warmth blooms in her chest as she feels Lexa sag, that spine of steel collapsing in on itself in the vulnerable way that Clarke has only seen a few times before.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs finally, raising her head slowly to look at Lexa. “For what I said, that I was done with whatever we were doing. I just—fuck, I was so confused, and you weren’t giving me anything to go on, and I know you’re trying, but I just got so frustrated, and mad, and I say a lot of awful things when I’m mad, but I’m not done with us, and  _nothing_  happened with Finn at the bar, I want you to know that—”

And suddenly Clarke can’t breathe again, because the feel of Lexa’s lips on hers steals the air from her lungs. There is something fragile in the way she is kissing her right now, something that has always eluded them before. And even though it isn’t quite the right time (it never is for them)—because muffled frantic calls echo from outside the door, and there are still bodies with bullets in them waiting to be fixed—at the moment, Clarke can’t bear to pull away. So she just lets time suspend itself for a few seconds, closing her eyes and letting everything that Lexa is, and hasn’t been until this moment, wash over her.

There is blood on her hands, but she twists them into Lexa’s scrubs anyways, wanting to hold her close, keep her pressed right up against her body, feeling her heartbeat. The walls are coming down between them, even if for just a few seconds, but as Clarke relishes the taste of Lexa on her lips, a hopeful feeling bubbles up in her that it may be for good this time.

When Lexa finally breaks off the kiss, she says almost immediately, “You remembered his name.”

“I remembered his name,” Clarke repeats softly, grief settling heavily on her again.

“We should get back,” Lexa suggests reluctantly, but also with resolve.

Clarke just nods, because they have work to do. Patients to treat, lives to save.

Accepting her agreement, Lexa lets her expression close off again. Where yesterday that would have worried or even angered Clarke, though, today she just smiles. She smiles, because she noticies that the impassiveness doesn’t reach Lexa’s eyes anymore. Instead, Clarke sees a readiness there, a willingness to try. And that’s all she ever wanted.

“Ready?” Clarke asks, reaching for the doorknob.

Lexa’s lips flex just the slightest bit, wryness dancing at the corners of her mouth.

“Ready.”

Clarke opens the door, her hands steady.


End file.
